


A Current of Fate

by WithTheKeyIsKing



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Arthur Brown is a Bad Dad, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit, Dark Cassandra Cain, Dark Dick Grayson, Dark Jason Todd, Dark Stephanie Brown, Dark Tim Drake, Dick Grayson is Renegade, Gen, Manipulative Ra's al Ghul, Memory Alteration, Protective Bruce Wayne, Renegade!Dick, Romani Dick Grayson, Sadistic Roman Sionis, Slade Wilson is a Good Dad, Stockholm Syndrome, Tim Drake is in the League of Shadows, Time Travel, Time Travel Ruins Everything, and a shit person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-02-29 03:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18770554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithTheKeyIsKing/pseuds/WithTheKeyIsKing
Summary: Someone's been messing with time, and none of the Batfamily are where they're supposed to be.Dick Grayson is the mercenary Renegade, trained by the best in the game. Jason Todd is Black Hood, heir to Roman Soinis' mob empire. Tim Drake is called Warith al Ghul, adopted son of the demon. Cassandra Cain is known as Ubu, the loyal bodyguard of Ra's al Ghul. Stephanie Brown works as Charon, Cluemaster's dutiful enforcer.Will Batman be able to figure out that their lives have been messed with, or will everyone be stuck in their new, distorted selves? And when it comes down to it, who will actually want to change?





	1. Where it All Begins

**Author's Note:**

> So I jump around timewise in this story, simply to be able to tell each plotline separately and then when they come together. So as a basis, these are the age differences:  
> When Dick Grayson is 10 (and his parents die) -  
> Cassandra Cain is 6 (& 1/2)  
> Jason Todd is 6  
> Stephanie Brown is 4  
> Tim Drake is 3  
> And Damian Wayne is negative 2

"What you see before you, gentlemen, is your downfall. But I can tell you each the precise moment to interfere, to make this all go away. Make it all work out with you on top, and with a few extra perks along the way."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."


	2. Dick Grayson || Renegade

Dick shivers and wraps the blanket more tightly around himself, but it does nothing to ward off the chill coming from inside of him.

He just...watched them fall. He did nothing, just stared as his parents plummeted. His mother's lips had moved, forming the shape of his name, but he hadn't been able to hear her over the roaring in his ears. Had his father said anything? Had they known if he was just a little faster, just a little quicker, they'd still be-?

"Are you in the stage of feeling angry yet, kid, or just helpless?" a gruff voice asks him. "Maybe guilty?"

Dick's head snaps up, his eyes going wide. No one has talked to him since the medic gave him this blanket, something about shock. He can see the looks everyone is giving him as the police officers escort the crowds out, the bodies of Mary and John Grayson now covered with white sheets. Dick wishes the police would stop taking pictures and just  _go._ He doesn't want to be here anymore, not when he knows he could've stopped this

The man who spoke before snaps twice right in front of his face, jarring Dick from his thoughts. "Iwhat?"

With a sigh, the man crouches down, bringing himself to eye level with Dick. "Still in shock, then."

He has white hair and an eyepatch like the pirates in cartoons, and his good blue eye is examining Dick critically, but not harshly. The lack of pity in his gaze settles Dick a little; he doesn't want to deal with any more well-wishers right now. Not when his arm had only been just a few inches too short of having his parents alive.

When Dick still doesn't respond, the man purses his lips, thoughtful, and then begins to stand up again. Dick feels a sudden flash of panic; this is the first adult who's approached him in an hour, the first one to not squint at him in sympathy or pat his knee in comfort or tell him _everything is going to be okay._ He doesn't want this man to leave. He doesn't want to be alone.

_He doesn't want to be alone._

"Helpless," Dick blurts out as the man starts to turn away. He turns back, a brief expression of surprise flitting across his face before he gives Dick his full attention, waiting patiently. "And...a little guilty maybe."

"Go on," the man encourages, and then once again crouches in front of Dick, gaze steady. He's looking at Dick like he is worthy of being listened to, not just some random kid. Haley looks at him like this. So does his mom.

Dick's heart clenches. _So_ did _his mom._

"I was a second behind. If I'd been a little faster, if I'd stretched just a bit more, maybe I could've caught them. Her. Him. I could've...done something. But I didn't."

"You weren't a second behind," the man disagrees. Quiet, non-confrontational, honest. "You were six seconds behind, and that's exactly where you were supposed to be in the act. You did your job perfectly, Dick, and no amount of wishing for longer arms is going to change the fact that the set was tampered with."

Dick straightens, his heart speeding up in his chest. Everyone has been murmuring  _accident_ around him; no one has acknowledged what he _knows_ happened.

"Tony Zucco," Dick says, heat simmering under his voice.

The man smiles. "You've got fire, good. And lots of fight, that's for sure. Tell me, kid; do you want to make Zucco and his thugs pay for what they've done?"

Dick hesitates to respond. Because,  _obviously,_ his answer to this question is a giant  _yes._ But he isn't an idiot; he knows the way the world works, and he knows _Gotham._ This man isn't talking about bringing the men responsible to the policehe's talking about their own personal brand of justice.

No, not just justice _vengeance._

The idea is...not unappealing. His parents are dead, their bodies broken and lives destroyed just because a stupid criminal decided to send a message. His parents are casualties of a war nowhere near them and it is clear as day that no one is going to be arrested for this crime. The police don't care about the _grief-driven theories_ of a ten-year-old boy. And he can't count on the myth of _the Batman_ to make everything okay.

But this man is offering him an actual solution.

"Yes," Dick whispers, his gaze caught by the ice blue in the other's eye.

The man nods, his lips twitching briefly in something like satisfaction. "Alright. Second question; do you want me to take care of it for you? Or do you want to master your helplessness and make them pay yourself?"

Past the man's shoulder, Dick can see a couple of police officers talking to a black-haired man in a suit, all of their brows lowered in worried frowns as they speak. The black-haired man's eyes flick over to Dick for a moment, his gaze soft and understanding, before focusing back on the officer in front of him.

That man might be here to take him somewhere nice. Or maybe to an orphanage. Or maybe that man is even working for Zucco, here to tie up some loose ends.

 _Zucco._ Dick can't just leave this up to someone else, can he? He can't just tell this one-eyed man to go take care of the bad guy for him and then sleep easy. How would that make him feel any less powerless? How would that make him feel like he'd actually  _done_ something? His parents raised him to be a doer. _Haley_ taught him to be a doer, too. Hell, the entire fucking _circus_ taught him that lesson!

He can't just step back and let the world control his fate now. He can't go to some orphanage and be just one more lost kid in the slums of Gotham, destined to always be a nothing and a nobody. This man in front of him is offering him something rarehe can't let it slide by.

"Teach me," he says firmly, locking his eyes back on the man's. "Help me learn. Help me...master my helplessness. I want to make them pay."

The man smiles at the conviction in his voice, and nods. "Alright, kid. I'll teach you everything I know. But first, we've got to lie to the cops a little."

Dick cracks a smile at that, because honestly that seems like the  _least_ of their worries, but alright. "What lie are we telling?"

"I'm your mother's cousin," the man says simply, shrugging a shoulder. There's a small, pleased smile tilting the corners of his lips. "I live in Gotham and came to see my family perform while you guys were in town, and of course the horror had to strike now. Since you have no other living relatives, I am the clear choice to gain custody of you. We'll then move out of Gotham because I feel that you should be raised somewhere that doesn't remind you so much of what happened."

Dick stares at the man for a moment, taken aback at how easily the plausible lie came, then says, "How long will that hold up? I feel like they'd check family records and see that my mom doesn't have any cousins."

"They will," the man agrees, dipping his chin, "but not before we're  _long_ gone. Right now they just want the kid shaking in a blanket to be taken care of; they'll hammer out the details later, and when they see that things don't quite add up they'll look for you, but you're just one orphan in a sea of thousands of them, so they won't look long."

Dick feels a twinge in his chest, something like  _longing._ He wants to be searched for, to be missed. He wants the entirety of Gotham watching the streets for him. He wants the other circus performers to put up a fuss to him disappearing with a man none of them know.

But he knows that isn't how this works.

"What's your name?" Dick asks, because he feels at this point he should know it, considering he's agreeing to run away with this man.

"Slade Wilson," the man tells him. "It's very nice to meet you, Dick Grayson."

Dick grins, delighted, when the man _Slade_ sticks out his hand for him to shake, and grabs it firmly, the way his dad taught him to.

"Very nice to meet you too,  _Uncle_ Slade."

Slade snorts at his cheekiness, shaking his head, and gets to his feet. He briefly runs a hand through Dick's hair in what feels like an affectionate gesture, and then searches the crowd for the ranking officer. "For the purposes of today, let's stick to Andrew Loyd."

Dick raises an eyebrow. "You don't think a famous musical composer is a little conspicuous as an alias?"

Slade frowns at him. "Your mother's maiden name is Loyd," he points out.

"It is," Dick agrees, giving the man a lopsided smile, curious as to why he knows that. "But  _Andrew Lloyd Webber_ is extremely famous. I'd suggest...a different first name. Just a smidge."

The one-eyed man  _humphs_ and looks at him appraisingly, then nods. "Fine, kid. How about James? There any famous James Loyds I need to be worried about?"

 _A classical and jazz musician, actually, but who's counting?_ Dick simply shakes his head.

Just then, an officer and the black-haired man in the suit make their way over to where Dick is sitting, both of them smiling kindly at the young boy.

"Hi, Dick," the officerone he vaguely recognizes from earliersays. "My name's Jim, and this is my friend Bruce. He wanted to talk to you about something. An offer."

Dick blinks, and glances at Slade. Slade, who has shifted closer to him in what looks like a protective stance, like his dad would do whenever people got too rowdy around him and his mom. Slade places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it briefly and then resting there.

"My nephew's had a very hard night," Slade says, his tone the perfect match to concerned, grieving family member. Dick's breath catches and he tries his best to keep his features neutral, to not give anything away. Working as a performer has given him some pretty good acting abilities, but he's finding it hard to focus at the moment. "Can any offers or gestures wait until he's gotten some rest?"

"Nephew?" the man in the suit exclaims, surprised. He glances at the officer, who looks just as surprised, and then down at Dick with a concerned, furrowed brow. "I thought he didn't have any other family."

Slade shrugs a shoulder and offers a tired smile. "I'm James Loyd. Mary is my..." his eye flashes briefly, as if in pain, "... _was_ my cousin. So technically Dick is my cousin once removed, but _nephew_ is much easier, and makes more sense. It's simply what I've called him his whole life. Mary and John liked it too."

The one-eyed man looks down at Dick then, his fond smile tinged with sadness, and Dick feels concerned for the first time. This isn't some two-bit criminal he's aligning himself with. This is an actual mercenary or assassin or whatever, with all the real skills to go along with it. Dick's heartbeat speeds up, his breathing quickening for a second, and he tries to decide what to do.

He could tell the officer and the nice man in the suit the truth, tell them that he just met this man when the man offered to help him get revenge on the man who killed his parents. They look like they honestly care; the man in the suit is looking at Dick with such honest  _sympathy_ and _understanding,_ like he truly gets what Dick is going through. It's a kind smile; a little distant, maybe, but kind.

He could just open his mouth...

There's a small prick of pain on his shoulder, and suddenly Dick feels a little woozy. He blinks heavily, leaning against Slade's sturdy legs as something to ground himself on.

He feels Slade's hand squeeze his shoulder again and then go up to run through his hair. It's a familiar, comforting gesture, one that reminds him of his mom, and suddenly he's hit with a wave of sadness. He'll never talk to them again, never do the act with them again, never listen to his mom sing and his dad tell stories. Never sit around a bonfire with the rest of Haley's. Never hear a crowd cheering for him and his family.

He'll never be held by his parents again.

Dick lets out an upset noise, burrowing his head against Slade's thigh, encouraging the hand in his hair. "I miss my mom," he cries, and Slade's hold tightens briefly before the man kneels down and lifts him quickly in his arms, tucking his head into the curve of his neck and rubbing his back.

"I know, kid," he murmurs. "I know."

That only makes Dick start to cry in earnest, and he vaguely hears Slade making goodbyes for them, excusing them from the officer and the black-haired man.

Dick doesn't see the man staring after the pair of them, a furrow in his brow, his lips pursed.

All he sees are his tears and the edge of what looks like a knife tucked into Slade's jacket.

 _What have I gotten myself into?_ he wonders, and it won't be for the last time.

* * *

There are two things Dick learns about Slade Wilson very quickly:

1) Slade is a very patient teacher.

2) Slade does not suffer stupid mistakes well.

Luckily for both of them, Dick isn't a fan of  _making_ stupid mistakes.

His background in the circus most certainly helps, and it doesn't take Slade long to get a feel for Dick's style of movement. Slade is, obviously, bigger than Dick, so that's another adjustment they make in training. Dick's surprised time and time again by how easily Slade adapts and mimics; the man most certainly  _isn't_ a lithe ten-year-old boy, but somehow he manages to show Dick the flips and punches and hits as if he was, in the exact manor that will lead Dick to succeed.

And every time Dick masters something new, Slade isn't hesitant with his praise. It makes the boy think of how everyone in the circus was always supportive, and that then simultaneously makes Dick sad and motivated.

Along with the physical training  _(more types of weapons than Dick knew existed, more forms of fighting that he thought possible),_ Slade teaches him to speak multiple languages. Dick already speaks English and Romani fluently with some broken Russian, but Slade immediately starts him on Arabic, French, Spanish, and Italian.

"Mercs go all over the world, kid," is what Slade tells him when listing the languages they'll be focusing on, "it's good to have a good grasp of a wide variety of languagesmakes your job easier in the long run."

Weapons-wise, Dick takes an instant liking to escrima sticks and the bo staff. Slade tends to lean towards sword and gunswhich, of course, he trains Dick in extensivelybut when he notices Dick's affinity he smiles wryly and says, "Well, we all need our choice of poisons, little bird; escrima is a good fit."

For Dick's eleventh birthdayeight months after he joined Sladethe mercenary takes the boy back to Gotham. They've traveled to so many places so far, Slade wanting to train him in various terrains, that it's strange to be back in a city that was once home. The longing for his parents grows minute by minute, but he doesn't ask Slade any questions after his first one is ignored.

Another thing Dick learned early on in their partnership is that Slade detests unnecessary questions. If he declines to answer something and you just ask it a million times he  _will_ get severely irritated, and more than likely Dick will be forced to run two miles in punishment. Dick finds this an alright system, because more often than not Slade answers him when he asks questions, and when he doesn'twell, it must simply be important.

Like that odd little marble Slade always carries around with him, no matter what. Even on missions, it'll be tucked into one of the pockets of his utility belt, always at hand. Dick asked about it once; Slade had smirked and said, _"Let an old man have his sentimentalities."_ Dick hasn't asked again.

They creep along the rooftop of a warehouse and silently slip in through a small sunlight. Slade signals him and Dick follows the instruction, silently wrapping around to the other side of the catwalk, his footsteps light and sure. He counts ten hostiles down below, and makes the count across to Slade, who nods his agreement.

At one final signal from his mentor, Dick drops to the ground and gets to work.

And the thing is that Dick  _likes_ fighting. The adrenaline, the thrill, and confidenceit's incredible. And he's  _good_ at it, too. He had all the necessary building blocks already there from the circus, and Slade is a good enough teacher than it didn't take long to learn how to add a strong kick to his already perfect flip.

He can hear Slade behind him, taking down a few of the bad guys, and doesn't let himself feel embarrassed that the mercenary felt the need to drop down and help; he's very, _very_ good, but he's still only been training for eight months and taking on ten fully grown men by himself is, at the moment, a bit of a stretch.

Dick grins at Slade when they're all down, and then kicks one in the head when he groans and starts to move as if to get up.

"Nice job, kid," Slade compliments. "Really."

Dick beams and then bounces a bit on the heels of his feet, still feeling the adrenaline from the fight in his bones. He's desperate to ask why they're here, who these guys are, but he doesn't. Something Dick's certainly had to learn with Slade is  _patience._

He's always been aware that he has a bit of a temper, and something Slade had to knock into his head very early on is that out in the field there is no room for angerit's life or death, and a child's irritation could get one (or both) of them killed. So, Dick tries.

The adrenaline and success don't help, though.

"Something on your mind, little bird?" Slade asks as he riffles through the pockets of one of the unconscious men. The tone of his voice is vaguely amused, and Dick can picture the smirk underneath the mask.

He sighs in exasperation. "If I ask again, are you gonna make me run a mile?"

Slade tilts his head slightly over his shoulder. His voice is soft, inviting, when he says, "Why don't you ask and find out?"

Dick narrows his eyes, thinking. Whenever Slade makes comments like that there is  _always_ another play at work. It's a way his mentor teaches him to be on his guard, to think outside the box. If Dick asked right now, Slade would probably give him the answer he wants. But that isn't the point of this little exercise.

The point is...

Dick takes a slow, calming breath, and then looks around, taking stock. They're by the docks, that much is obvious from the smell even if Dick hadn't seen them coming it. This is an abandoned warehouse, a manufacturing plant of some kind going by the long conveyor belts. The men were all seated around a table playing cards, and Dick can see a shiny gold Rolex on the table that someone apparently put down as collateral.

With nothing conclusive about their purpose in any of that, Dick turns his attention to the men themselves.

Eight out of ten of them are packing, the last two carrying knives. None of them have any tattoos that show gang affiliations; that doesn't rule out gang activity, but it rules out the larger, more obvious ones. Three of the men have plain white envelopes of cash in their inside jacket pockets, and one of those men also has a wallet with an ID inside. Dick pulls it out and-

His breath catches and he goes still, his eyes running over the words again and again and again. He stands slowly, and eventually raises his head.

Slade is staring at him, watching him carefully, and waits for Dick to make the first move.

"Do you have smelling salts?" Dick croaks out, his throat feeling tight. Slade nods and pulls some out of his belt, tossing the capsule through the air. Dick catches it deftly.

"Rope is over there," Slade says, nodding to a coil a few feet away. Dick nods and stares down at the ID for a moment more before he tosses it to the ground and gets the rope.

Tying the mob boss up is fairly simple, and maybe Dick is harsher than he needs to be, ties the knots tighter than is healthy, but it's not like Slade is going to judge him. When he's done, the man's wrists and forearms are bound tightly, as are his ankles and thighs. He's not going anywhere for a while.

Dick watches his captive for a moment, unconscious and bleeding sluggishly from a wound on his head, and then puts the smelling salts under the man's nose.

Within a few seconds, the mob boss jerks into wakefulness. He writhes and thrashes in his bonds, but with his arms bound behind his back and his legs basically useless, he has no leverage for escape. He realizes that soon and stills, panting heavily, glaring up at Dick and Slade.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" the man snarls. "You're going to regret this, that's for sure. You jumped up little shit-"

Dick slams one end of his bo staff against the man's temple; not hard enough to knock him out again, but hard enough to shut him up.

"I know exactly who you are," Dick says. "Anthony 'Tony' Zucco, first-generation immigrant from Italy, orphaned at a young age when a gang of criminals murdered Mr. and Mrs. Zucco for refusing to pay protection money." His lips twist bitterly, wryly. "How ironic, isn't it?"

The blood has drained from Zucco's face during Dick little run-down, and the boy relishes in the hints of anxiety starting to show.

"Who are you, kid?" the mob boss demands in a growl, but the constant flittering of his eyes doesn't add to his tough act.

Dick crouches down and pulls off his domino mask, then leans in so that their faces are only a foot apart. Zucco tries to inch back but there's nowhere to go, instead settling for looking away nervously. Dick wonders what he sees in this young boy's eyes.

"Look at me, Tony," Dick murmurs. The mob boss doesn't follow his instruction. Dick pulls the small pistol from the small of his back and places it under the criminal chin, who squeaks and then does as he's told.

"Look at me," Dick says again, "and see if my face jogs your memory."

Then, he waits. Zucco scans his face, looking more and more anxious with every second that he doesn't recognize Dick, and Dick feels a flare of anger. He's not surprised that the mob boss doesn't know him, but it's still infuriating that his parents were only a couple more victims to this man, not worth remembering.

"I'll remind you, then," Dick said coldly. "Eight months ago you tried to extort C.C. Haley for protection money. When he refused, you sabotaged the trapeze set, leading to the deaths of John and Mary Grayson while their son watched from up above."

Dick can see the moment it clicks for Zucco, and the horror that follows.

"Youyou're thethe Grayson boy," the mob boss stutters out. "But you were just some kid! Your parents-"

"Are dead," Dick interrupts, gaze burning, "because of  _you."_

"Now, wait a minute," Zucco says nervously, gaze flicking away from Dick. "I didn't-"

"You did!" Dick roars. "You  _did,_ and I'm the only one other than Haley that  _knows_ it. He might've been too scared to tell the police about your sorry ass, but luckily for me, the police weren't the ones who took me in."

Zucco looks at Slade nervously, taking in the sword and gun and body armor and expressionless mask. He gulps, and looks back to Dick.

"Look, kid, I-I'm sorry for what happened to your parents, I really am, but let's not do anything that you'll regret."

Dick smirks darkly. His heart is thudding in his chest, almost painful from the force of it. His fingers are tingling from adrenaline and anger and maybe a bit of fear, though he certainly doesn't pay that last one any attention. It's starting to make his hands shake a little.

As if seeing that shaking as indecision, Zucco tries to press. "Why don't you put the gun down and we can talk through where to go from here? You don't want to kill me, kid. You don't want that on your conscious."

Off to the side, Dick can feel Slade watching him. He keeps waiting for his mentor to say something, to urge him forward, but he should've known better; Slade has given him the tools to reach this moment, and he's not going to interfere. Whatever Dick chooses right now, it's his choice, and Slade is going to let it be.

That, more than anything, gives Dick the courage.

"You're wrong," he murmurs, and then he pulls the trigger.

The bullet rips through Zucco's head and splatters blood across Dick's face. His stomach rolls and he stumbles to his feet, backing away. He sucks in a few deep breaths but that does nothing to quell the nausea, so he doubles over, vomiting.

He feels a hand on his back and flinches, but all Slade does is rub soothing circles. Dick suddenly feels deeply embarrassed by his reaction to the death, butas if knowing exactly what's on his mindSlade says, "You're doing just fine, little bird. I'm proud of you. You just took a life for the first time; it's perfectly natural to be affected by that. It's alright, I've got you."

The words calm something inside of Dick and slowly the nausea fades, his blurry vision righting itself. He takes a few calming breaths and then stands up again. Slade pulls him against himself, one arm around his shoulders, the other stroking his hair.

"You and I are going to do great things together, Dick. I'll always have your back. You're gonna be just fine."

Dick believes him.

* * *

On the year anniversary of being with Slade, his mentor gifts him with a uniform of his own.

It's black with a red tint to it, and a mask that pulls up over his head and eyes, leaving the bottom half of his face free and an opening at the top for his hair to be loose. Across his chest and around to his back is a red emblem that strikes Dick as slightly familiar, but he can't place it yet.

He grins up at Slade, joy filling him. It's been a long road to get to this point, and he feels proud of himself that he's earned a spot at the side of a famed mercenary. Up until this point he's just worn a plain black outfit and a domino mask over his eyes, a simple way to conceal his identity. But this is...this is an actual costume, a real uniform, and if his eyes prick with tears well then neither of them mention it.

"You can pick your name, kid," Slade tells him, and he's smiling, too. "Make it a good one, eh?"

Dick spends the next week thinking it over. The name  _Robin_ flits across his mind, the nickname his mother used to call him, but it leaves a sour taste in his mouth;  _Robin_ is a pure memory, and Dick doesn't want to dirty it by associating it with his new job. He struggles enough as it is with knowing that his parents probably would've hated him going down this path, and using that nickname feels like throwing his betrayal in their faces.

It's that thought that leads him to his choice.

"Renegade," he tells Slade when he enters the training room. His mentor looks up at him from where he's cleaning a few of his guns, and raises an eyebrow. He's not wearing his eyepatch, and it sends a thrill through Dick; he's the only one Slade lets see the wound, holding him in high regard, a symbol of his trust.

"Context, little bird?" Slade prompts, and Dick smiles.

"That's what I choose to go by," he explains. "Renegade."

Slade nods slowly and then stands, offering him a small, approving smile in return. "Renegade. I like it."

Over the next six months, Slade eases him into missions. The first year was really just training for Dick, every once in a while completing small jobs as practice. But now, Slade starts to take him with him. They start slow and small, little thieving jobs, a low-risk protection job, et cetera.

Dick tries not to feel impatient, because he knows Slade isn't trying to baby him. This is the smart play, because though Dick is definitely skilled, he's still brand new and not even in his teen years yet. It's the smart play to start slow. It still leaves Dick antsy for some real action.

The first time Slade takes him on an assassination job, Dick can feel his mentor watching him carefully. He tries not to let it make him anxious and just does his role, focusing on his parts. When it comes time for Slade to pull the trigger Dick doesn't flinch, and he even grins when the mercenary looks over at him.

A month later, they're in position for another job, and Slade holds out the gun to Dick.

Dick stares down at it for a moment, and then back up to his mentor's face. He can't read him right now because of the mask, and it makes his stomach muscles clench. He's sure Slade has that familiar calm, nonjudgmental expression on his face, but Dick wishes he could see it.

Slade doesn't retract the gun while Dick hesitates, just waits for the boy to make a decision, like back with Tony Zucco. It's something he definitely likes about Slade; the man gives him the skills and the opportunities, but it's always Dick's decision for the big shit.

And so it's Dick's choice when he reaches out and takes the rifle.

He's practiced with itand various kinds of ita million times, but this is the first time he's wielding it against anything other than paper targets, dummies, or robots. The weight of it is familiar enough and he holds it correctly by muscle memory alone. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he raises the weapon and aims, looking through the scope.

He takes a slow breath in.

He gently squeezes the trigger.

He lets the breath out.

The target is down, a clean shot to the head. The three men around him panic, darting to their feet, two of them pulling guns of their own and looking around hurriedly, trying to find the shooter. Dick makes quick work of the pair of them, and then adjusts his aim as the last tries to run, going down with a bullet through the heart.

And Dick feels...

Well, he feels  _accomplished._ He feels  _proud._ Four clean shots, no witnesses. It's... _good._

He lowers the gun and looks over at Slade. His mentor has lifted his mask, revealing his face, and the pride is clear in his expression. Dick grins back at him, his heart surging.

"Excellent job, Renegade," he says, and clasps a hand on Dick's shoulder. "Excellent job."

* * *

When Dick is thirteen, he gets severely injured on a job.

They're working with another assassin at the moment, a woman who goes by the name Lady Shiva, and Dick rather likes her. She's highly competent, no-nonsense, and seems to take a liking to Deathstroke's young apprentice, too. Dick wonders if she has a kid as wellor  _did,_ reallygoing by the way she acts around him.

The job is fairly straightforward. They've been hired to steal something from a heavily fortified mansion crawling with highly trained guards. Shiva's been hired to kill the man who owns this item. It seemed like an easy alliance to make.

They start making quick work of the guards around the perimeter, trying to take as many down as possible before someone manages to raise the alarm. Avoiding the cameras is a challenging aspectthe man seems to have the entirety of the grounds coveredbut a little bit of wire tampering makes them go out.

There are more guards inside than they expected, far more than surveillance the last two days had shown. Dick purses his lips and briefly considers radioing Slade, asking if he thinks this might be a set-up, but the early order of radio silence plays in his head again and again.

He debates it too long, and then they're upon him.

"Deathstroke," he grits into his comm as men flood the small room he's just crept into, attacking him with vigor. "I've got as least fifteen hostiles at my location, all very much armed."

 _"Copy,"_ Slade murmurs back. _"On my way to you."_

Dick holds onto those words, but if Slade is where he was supposed to be in their plan, then he's all the way on the other side of the grounds. Shiva is closer, but he doesn't trust her enough to think she's going to show up.

He holds his own for a while, but eventually they manage to hold him down, placing a gun against his head in clear warning. He pants heavily, his eyes darting around the room as he tries to come up with a plan.

"Where are your accomplices?" the guard in front of him barks out. He's an ugly man, with a wide chin and a nose that's clearly been broken numerous times. He glares down at Dick and cracks his knuckles.

"Sorry, who?" Dick asks innocently, flashing a smile.

The guard doesn't hesitate to throw a punch. Dick's head snaps to the side, and he's sure if the other men weren't holding him in place on his knees, he would've been thrown to the ground from the force of it.

Dick wiggles his jaw back and force and is pleased to have confirmation that it's not broken or cracked, just a little sore. "I'm going to enjoy giving you one in return," Dick sighs to the man, raising an eyebrow, which only gets him a punch to the gut in response.

It knocks the wind out of him and he gasps for breath, withholding a groan at the burst of pain. The guard takes a fistful of his hair and yanks his head back, making Dick arch his neck.

"Where are your accomplices?" he asks again, bringing their faces close together. His breath is rancid, and Dick wrinkles his nose.

"You misunderstand why I'm here," Dick says. "I'm a tourist, you see, and I got turned around-"

One of the other guards slams the butt of his pistol against Dick's head, and this time Dick does groan from the pain. He can feel blood trickle down the side of his face, but luckily his vision doesn't blur and nausea doesn't hit.

"One more time, boywhere are your accomplices?" the guard growls.

Dick doesn't say anything in response, focusing on breathing evenly, and the guard sneers at him before releasing his hair.

"Alright," the man says, "if you're really nobody, if you really know nothing, then this doesn't matter."

And then, suddenly, there's a knife being plunged into Dick's stomach.

He coughs, the pain not hitting him immediately, and then he gasps for air when it does. The guards holding him release him and he collapses onto his side. He tries to press his hands against the wound to stem the copious amounts of bleeding, but his whole body is shaking and it's becoming hard to focus on anything.

He hears someone say something, and then a chorus of laughter, but none of his matters because he's feeling very cold, all of a sudden, and the pull of unconsciousness is looking very nice.

There's a loud slam and then shouts of alarm. Dick tries to keep his eyes open, and can faintly make out two shapes cutting down the group of men. It takes too much concentration to watch them, though, so he lets his eyes slide shut as the sounds of fighting die down around him.

"Renegade," he hears someone call, and then there's a large, gloved hand on his cheek.  _"Dick,_ open your eyes."

Dick wants to follow the instruction, but it's hard, and sleep is looking pretty fantastic right about now.

"That's an  _order,_ Renegade," the voice growls. Dick whimpers and tries, slowly prying his eyes open. The man in front of him is blurry but he can see enough to recognize Slade, mask removed.

"Good," the mercenary says on a breath, nodding sharply. "Now keep them open; you are not allowed to fall asleep, you hear me?"

Slade gently rolls Dick onto his back and he cries out as the movement jars the wound.

"We need to get him to a hospital, and fast," a female voice says softly. "That's a lot of blood, Deathstroke."

"I know," Slade snaps back at her. Dick cries out again as pressure is added to his stomach. "Okay, little bird, I know it hurts, but you have to hang on for me. We're going to get you help, but you have to stay awake."

"I'm so tired," Dick mumbles back. "I just wanna..."

"Hey!" Slade barks sharply, and Dick startles slightly, a small burst of energy. "You're not allowed to sleep yet, Dick. Alright?"

"It hurts, dad," Dick whimpers. Slade freezes, but Dick doesn't have enough energy to figure out why. "And I...I can't feel my fingers or toe."

"Slade, we need to move  _now,"_ the female voice says again, far more urgent. "Either grab him and we run or we need to cauterize the wound until we can actually take care of any internal injuries."

Dick's eyes slide shut and Slade shouts his name again, but he really doesn't have the energy to keep them open. He wants to apologize, but he doesn't have the energy for that, either.

His mind clouds, things getting fuzzy. He hears Slade say,  _"This is going to hurt, little bird,"_ then there's a horrifying, searing pain, Dick hears himself scream, and then everything fades to black.

* * *

When Dick wakes up, he has a large burn across his stomach that will surely scar, andas he's told latera doctor took care of internal bleeding while he was asleep.

Slade is asleep at his bedside. He stirs when Dick shifts and then leans forward, looking over the boy with a furrowed brow. "How are you feeling, kid?"

"Fuzzy," Dick mumbles, blinking heavily. "I don't remember..."

"We took care of you," Slade tells him quietly. "You'll have a wicked scar, but they add character."

"I'm tired, dad," Dick says, and lets his eyes drift shut again.

Slade releases a quiet breath, and the strokes a hand over Dick's hair briefly. "Go to sleep, little bird. I'll keep watch."

Dick sleeps.

* * *

Recovering is a long, irritating process, and after a week Dick is already glaring at the walls. Slade weathers his short temper with ease over the following month, not even blinking when the boy snaps at him time and time again. Dick feels bad about it, but he's sick of being weak and injured, and he wants to  _move._

Eventually he gets better enough to start light training again, and eventually he's back in fighting shape. Slade's babying him a little, being far more hesitant than he has been in the past, and Dick doesn't know why until he remembers what he said while dying and high on drugs.

It makes his cheeks heat, embarrassed, and his jaw sets in determination, resolute to clear up the problem.

One night, a few months after the job, Dick wanders into the kitchen after waking up from some nightmare he can't remember. He finds Slade already in the kitchen, sipping a glass of water and reading some fiction book Dick doesn't recognize.

Slade doesn't acknowledge his presence and Dick doesn't react to him, either, getting a glass of water for himself. He jumps up onto the countertop then, and delights in the fact that his injury doesn't throb at the movement, simply twinges faintly, not even painful.

"Something on your mind, little bird?" Slade murmurs after a while of letting Dick watch him.

"You've been acting weird," Dick says, feeling no need to conceal his purpose. "And I get why, so I just wanted to..." He clears his throat awkwardly, and Slade looks up at him, expression unreadable. "I called you dad. I just wanted you to know that you don't have to feel weird about that, 'cuz I wasn't exactly in my right mind. I know I'm...not your son, so we can just forget about that and go back to-"

"Kid," Slade interrupts. He closes his book and sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. He looks at Dick appraisingly, then, and says, "You've been under my care for just about three and a half years. You are..." He clenches his jaw and releases it, meeting Dick's gaze steadily. "You are my son, alright? You calling me dad wasn't the wrong thing to do, and it didn't make me separate myself from you. It just...it really put things into perspective for me."

He stands up and walks around the table, facing Dick. Dick knows his eyes are wide, but he wasn't expecting this. He wasn't expecting to be wanted in return.

"You're my kid," Slade says firmly. "Now go the fuck to bed; you need your rest."

Dick smiles crookedly and nods, hopping off the countertop. After a moment's hesitation, he darts forward and hugs Slade. The man freezes for a moment and then wraps his arms around him, sighing quietly.

"Go," he murmurs after a little while, and gently pushes Dick away.

Dick does as he's told, and goes back to bed smiling, the nightmare long forgotten.

* * *

The first job Slade takes him on when he's all better is the first time Dick encounters the Batman.

Until now, Dick hasn't been sure whether the man was myth or legend. Now, running across rooftops with a giant black-clothed figure chasing after him, Dick most certainly can put him in the  _VERY REAL_ category.

"I've got a bat problem," Dick says into his comm, laughing breathlessly. He loves being up high, loves flipping and jumping from rooftop to rooftop, and even being chased by a crazy vigilante can't dampen his mood.

 _"Hate that fucker,"_ Slade grumbles back.  _"Alright, I'm almost done, I'll be there in a fewjust keep him occupied."_

"No problem," Dick replies with a grin.

The next time he has to transfer to another building, he adds a little extra flourish, using the movement to throw a knife at his pursuer. Batman dodges, as Dick knew he would, but it puts the man three extra seconds behind him, which is good.

Dick darts down into a tight roll when Batman throws one of those bat-shaped knives at him, and it doesn't hit him but lands close. Dick swipes it up, curious to possess one, and keeps moving.

He under-shoots the next jump and feels a moment of panic as he starts to drop too soon, not on the next roof. He catches the ledge and grunts as he slams against the brick side of the building. He slowly starts to pull himself up, grimacing, and uses his feet against the bricks for an extra shove, pushing himself up onto the roof.

He takes a moment to catch his breath, and that little overstep from before has given Batman ample time to catch up with him. The vigilante stands above him, his expression blank and unreadable under the cowl, and Dick sends him a charming grin.

"Hi," he chirps, "nice to meet you, Batman."

Batman's brow lowers for a second, probably confused by the criminal's easy attitude, and then hauls Dick up by the front of his suit. Dick goes without complaint, his arms loose at his sides. There's not much point in fighting at the moment, so he's perfectly satisfied to just wait for Batman to drop his guard a little, or for Slade to show up.

"How old are you?" Batman asks, his voice a low grumble.

"Does it matter?" Dick asks, raising his eyebrows.

The vigilante stares at him for a moment, and then lets go on his suit with one hand, still holding it in the other. The free hand starts to go up to Dick's mask and he jerks back slightly, arching his neck.

"Hey, hey, that's not very nice," Dick chastises nervously. "A good mercenary doesn't reveal their secret identity until the  _third_ date. At least buy me dinner first."

Batman's brow furrows again and he hesitates, which is all Dick needs. He twists quickly, jerking out of the vigilante's hold, and follows it up with a kick to the stomach for good measure before backing away to get some distance between them.

"Any day now," Dick mutters into his comm, glancing around for Slade.

 _"I see you,"_ Slade replies,  _"I'm at your one o'clock, his seven."_

Sure enough, Dick spots the elder mercenary moving silently closer and closer, approaching from the bat's blindspot.

"Who are you working for?" Batman asks Dick. "Who's hiring kids to do their dirty work?"

Dick makes an affronted noise, but doesn't really feel offended. "I've been in this business almost as long as you, thank you very much. You only started this bat shit five years ago, after all; I'm only two years behind you."

Slade hits their roof then, and though he's nearly completely silent, the Batman whirls around the face the new opponent. He's not an amateur, though, so he quickly moves positions to keep both Slade and Dick in his sights.

"Deathstroke," the bat says lowly, "I'd heard you'd taken on a child apprentice, but I figured it was just gossip."

"What can I say," Slade replies dryly, "the kid's good at what he does." Then he shifts his attention to Dick. "Nine-Six-Two."

One of the many,  _many_ codes they have between the pair of them _I'm going to throw a smoke bomb, so hold your breath and then we'll run._

Batman doesn't have time to react before Slade tosses a small device, which instantly releases a large spray of gas. Dick is already moving towards the other end of the roof, his jaw clenched against pulling in any air, and he feels Slade more than hears him as his mentor falls into step with him.

By the time they reach what was supposed to be their meet point, Dick is grinning and laughing softly. They slow from a run to a walk, and then get into the car waiting for them.

"That was awesome," Dick chuckles. "He's basically  _exactly_ what I pictured." He makes a contemplative face. "Well, he  _was_ missing the claws and pointy teeth that many have proclaimed he has..."

Slade snorts and shakes his head. "The bat's just a man, hardly a terrifying creature." He glances at Dick out of the corner of his eye for a few seconds and then asks, "Do you think in another life you would've wanted to do the hero shit?"

Dick frowns and turns in his seat to face his mentor. "What part of your ass did you pull that question out of?"

Slade waits for an answer, nonplussed by his snark.

Dick sighs and says, "I don't know, Slade. I mean, never say never, but." He shrugs a shoulder. "If you hadn't found me, I would've probably ended up as just another kid in the Gotham foster care system. Maybe I would've grown up wanting to help people, or maybe I'd become really bitter and turn out just like a million other orphans on the streets, wrapped up in some kind of crime family or another."

"You're still a criminal," Slade points out.

Dick offers his mentor a crooked smile. "With you, I'm Renegade, partner of the infamous mercenary Deathstroke. With you, I got revenge on the man who killed my parents. I'm strong, and confident, and skilled, and never want for anythingall of that because of  _you._ I'm happy where I am. _Maybe_ in another life I would've been a superhero, but I don't see that as highly possible, not with where I would've ended up. I'm glad I am who I am right now. I'm glad you found me."

Slade glances over at him for a long moment, something Dick doesn't really understand in his eyes, and then nods. "I'm glad too, little bird."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Tim Drake!


	3. Tim Drake || Warith al Ghul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay new chapter!

Tim is only seven years old, but he likes to think he is quite a skilled detective.

He knows that the Flying Graysons' deaths four and a half years ago was murder, not an accident. He knows that Bruce Wayne is somehow connected to Batman. And he knows that the illness currently taking over his parents is not natural.

The doctors all say there is nothing they can do, that the sickness has simply come on too quickly and too severely for them to be able to accomplish anything other than making his parents comfortable in their final days.

But Tim knows the truth. This isn't some foreign disease Jack and Janet Drake picked up while overseas. This is a poisoning. His parents have been _targeted,_ and he doesn't know _why._ But if he can figure out the _why,_ then he can find the _who,_ and then he can find the _antidote._

In theory, that's an excellent plan. In practice, it's far more challenging.

No one cares what a seven-year-old thinks, least of all the high-priced doctors that have already made up their minds about what's happening. The police deputy Tim talks to looks at him like he's crazy, and gently (condescendingly) tells him that this isn't a police matter, and maybe the doctors actually know what they're talking about.

Tim hadn't expected better, not really, but it's still irritating. It also means he has to work far harder at his investigation, considering no one is going to help him.

He steals his parents' medical charts and goes over them with a fine-tooth comb. He goes to the library and pulls down countless books on poisons and medicines and antidotes and herbal treatments, and then he compares everything he reads against the facts the doctors have copied down. He looks up the words he doesn't understand and ends up asking the doctors at the hospital for extrapolation, too, when their shorthand is lacking.

The woman he talks to looks dumbfounded by the small child in front of her spewing off complicated medical terms, and then she seems to become deeply amused by it all. He figures there's probably something condescending in that, but she answers his questions in full so he tries to not let it bother him.

It's almost immediately obvious that whoever poisoned his parents is very good at what they do, and has probably done this before. Since he doesn't have access to the further medical tests he wants to run in order to follow up on his various theories of the problemand the doctors practically laugh in his face when he askshe has to work with the information he has.

Since the information he has won't tell him  _what_ poison was used, his only option is to use that information to simply find the person responsible.

Yea. Simple.

Tim starts by making a list of everyone who could possibly want to kill his parents. Jack and Janet Drake were powerful people, in the business world at least, and so frankly anyone who had been pissed off by their aggressive attitude could've been responsible for this. They might've been absent and inattentive parents but they were completely the opposite when it came to their company.

So, his list becomes filled with all of the people who over the last five years have in some way been screwed over by the Drakes, or even just been denied something they wanted because of the Drakes' dedication.

He begins checking for alibis and crossing names off one by one. As days pass and his parents grow weaker, Tim's anxiety grows. They might not always have been the best parents, but they were very,  _very_ far from awful people, and he doesn't want them dead. They're his mom and dad, and finding their poisoner is just about all he can think about at the moment.

It's day four and he's waiting to hear back on another alibi when something pops out to him in the medical file.

He hasn't slept in a very long time, he's running on more coffee than is probably healthy for a seven-year-old, and he's sitting upside down in one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs at his parents' bedside, staring absently at the papers strewn across the floor, when he sees it.

The files for Jack and Janet Drake have lots of random notes scribbled in by doctors. Tim has, of course, been through them all and re-copied them down in an orderly fashion in his own notes. However, currently looking at the medical files upside down, something clicks that didn't beforethere's a post-it note one of the EMTs stuck into the file about the patients' heartrates on the way to the hospital, and the points where the pen pressed down harder almost look... _purposeful._

It could be he's just sleep-deprived. It could be that the EMT was simply writing in a hurry, or the pen they used was a little broken. But now that Tim's _really_ looking, it looks a little like a pattern. He's probably just seeing things, and honestly it would make  _no sense_ for an EMT to...what? Leave a _clue_ to the highly advanced murder they were part of?

It's a stupid idea. Illogical. Baseless.

Tim scrambles to his feet and examines the post-it note anyway.

It takes him a couple hours, but eventually it clicks. The blotches and indents in the ink and paper seem to be like something on a map. From there, it isn't hard to match it against a map of Gotham, and from there, he has a location.

A fucking  _location._

And now, Tim hesitates. Because this is...well, if he's right, and this isn't some vision his sleep-deprived brain came up with to give him hope, then this means a killer left a clue to where they'll be. This means that the killer wants to be found, and found by someone  _clever._ A random goddamn post-it note? It's been staring people in the face, but people are idiots who accept what they're told.

Tim hadn't. He knew the doctors were wrong from the beginning. It just took him a while to get the right conclusion.

So is this...a test? But for whom? And what kind of killer leaves a location behind? Do they want to get caught? If so,  _who_ do they want to catch them? Has this person done this kind of thing before, leave an obscure clue on a perfect crime?

And, the most important question of all _what is Tim supposed to do now?_

He could go to the police, but why on Earth would they believe him? They didn't before, and a map-like post-it note is probably not going to change their minds. The doctors are equally as unlikely to listen, and any other adults wouldn't have any stake in what's going on, nor know what to do even  _if_ they believed him.

Which means Tim has to go alone.

Which is a stupid,  _stupid_ idea. Because what the fuck is he going to do? He's a freaking  _seven year old boy._ What kind of murderer is going to look at him and shake in their boots? Why would they ever want to give him the antidote?

He pulls on his shoes and his coat and goes anyway.

The building the location brings him to is a pretty high-end hotel. Tim stands outside it for a moment, apprehension and anxiety making his chest tight and his mouth dry. He pushes himself forward, murmuring a quiet thank you to the doorman, and enters the large entrance hall.

But from here, he...really doesn't know what he's supposed to do. He has the post-it in his pocket and pulls it out, squinting down at it. Is there something he's missing? Some extra clue on the paper about the specific place he's supposed to go? Should he-?

"Timothy Drake?"

Tim whirls around, wide-eyed. A woman wearing a uniform for the hotel stands behind him, a polite smile on her face. Her eyebrows are raised ever-so-slightly in question, and Tim clears his throat and says, "Y-yes, that's me."

The woman nods, eyes crinkling. "Of course. Follow me, please." She turns and heads towards the elevator bank. Tim rushes after her.

"Excuse me, but where are we going?"

After pushing the  _Up_ button, the woman tilts her head at him, seemingly confused by his confusion. "Mr. Sora asked us to be on the lookout for you; he's been waiting."

The elevator opens and Tim follows her numbly inside, shocked. So he was right about the killer wanting someone to find him, and apparently that someone is  _Tim._ Why? Why does this murderer care about what a seven-year-old can do?

Tim doesn't say anything else as they head up and up, all the way to the penthouse. His palms are sweaty and he has to clasp his hands together to keep them from shaking. This could so easily end with his death. And he's just...going along with it. He came here to face a killer and he actually thought that was a sound decision to make. This man is  _poisoning his parents_ and he's going up to his hotel room!

And it's not like Tim can deny he's curious. Because he is. He just can't let that curiosity outweigh  _life._ It's very unlikely that this man is going to do anything other than kill him, not give him the antidote. He should really,  _really_ leave.

The elevator doors slide open, and the woman gestures him out. He stares at her for a moment and she gives him an encouraging smile, nodding towards the door.

After one last moment of hesitation, he exits the elevator. The penthouse is large and gorgeous and Tim stares at everything, walking forward slowly. A long dining table comes into view as he moves, and he sees a man sitting at the head of it. He's in maybe his mid-forties with thick black hair that's graying at the temples. There's a book open in front of him and what could only be called a goblet in his hand, and he holds himself which such dignity that Tim can't help but think he carries the air of a king.

"Timothy, do come forward," the man says without looking up, turning a page in his book. "Would you like something to eat? I doubt you've consumed much the last few days."

"You poisoned my parents," Tim says as he does as he's told, walking closer to the man. He stops about five feet away and does his best to not fidget.

"And what brought you to that conclusion?" the man asks. He closes his book and puts down his glass, finally looking up at Tim. There's something so very  _piercing_ to his gaze, the sharp green of it cutting Tim like a knife, and it makes his chest tighten even further.

"The sickness was too sudden and violent to be natural," Tim says hesitantly. "It didn't match up with any normal progression of sickness. I knew they had to have been poisoned. And then I figured out the map on the post-it notethe splotches and harder presses of the pen corresponded to landmarks and street intersections. It brought me here."

"Quite the little detective, aren't you?" the man says, lips curved upward, and there's something in his expression like he knows something Tim doesn't.

"Why did you do it?" Tim asks. "I don't recognize the name  _Sora_ from their business deals, and you don't look familiar if it's a personal grudge. Why did you poison my parents?"

The man leans back in his chair, an eyebrow raising. "Seven years old," he says, almost to himself. Then, louder, he asks, "Why do _you_ think I did it, Timothy?"

Tim's brow furrows. So he was right before; this whole thing  _is_ a test. But why? What's the point of poisoning a couple just so that their prepubescent son could figure out who it was and show up? Why does this man want to test Tim? What's the fucking  _point?_

"You're testing me," Tim says. "You told the hotel staff to expect me, and you instantly knew who was entering before you'd even seen me. You wanted me to solve this, and to find you. But I...don't know why. I'm just some kidwhy do you care if I can figure this out?"

"I keep an ear out," the man says vaguely, waving a hand dismissively through the air. "But hearing you have potential means nothing without seeing what you can do. I must admit that I am not disappointed."

Tim just stares at him. He's sure his eyes are a little wide, but it's certainly understandable given the circumstances. This killer is confirming that it was all about Tim. Two people are dying in hospital beds because this  _psychopath_ wanted to see if Tim actually had a brain on his shoulders.

"Will you give me the antidote?" Tim asks, and hates how small he sounds.

"No," the man replies, no hesitation.

"Why not?" Desperation is clear in his voice.

"Because I'm going to give you an honor, and if you have a place to come back to, your loyalties will always be divided," the man says. He sounds so calm, like he isn't telling a _child_ that he refuses to save their parents.

"Honor?" Tim asks anxiously. "What honor?"

The man watches him for a long moment appraisingly. "Some years ago, I was shown something," he says eventually. "Something...that could alter the world, if we so chose. I debated what I wished to do about it for some time, and in the end decided to follow the advice I was given. And so now here I am."

He gets to his feet. Tim takes an involuntary step back.

"Timothy, my name is Ra's al Ghul. I am the head of an organization called the League of Shadows. You have monumental potential, and I intend to train you, raise you as I would my own blood. Jack and Janet Drake are unfortunate causalities in a plot far more important than themselves."

"They're my parents!" Tim shouts back. His breathing is starting to come in sharp and quick, actual panic starting to creep in. "You can't just-"

"Oh, please," the man says, practically rolling his eyes. "Do not delude yourself about your situation, Timothy. Jack and Janet Drake are excellent in the boardroom but not as parents. You are an ignored, unwanted little boy who gets shipped off to various boarding school when they decide to go on trips around the world. They might be your  _blood,_ Timothy, but do not make the mistake of thinking that means they love you."

Tim gapes at him, and hates that he feels tears sting his eyes. He knows his parents aren't the greatest, that they tend to forget him, but they do their best. They aren't bad people. They don't deserve to die for their inattention.

"No," Tim says desperately, and some tears fall down his cheeks. "No, you can't do this. You can't make choices like this, deciding who lives and who diesit isn't up to you!"

The man looks amused, and slides his hands into the pockets of his nice slacks. "Who else would it be up to?" he asks curiously. "Do you believe in a higher power?"

Tim falters. "Well, no, but-"

"I  _am_ the higher power, Timothy," the man tells him severely. "I decide who lives and who dies every single dayand someday, you will too."

"There are laws," Tim says stubbornly. His voice hitches. "It's not for random people to decide, it's for the courts system, and-"

"Don't act naïve, because despite your age, I do not think you so."

"It's not naïve to think you shouldn't kill innocent people!" Tim shouts.

"This is happening, Timothy," Ra's says firmly. Tim goes still at the pure  _command_ in his voice. "Jack and Janet Drake will die, and you will come with me. How challenging you make this for yourself is completely up to you."

The man's hand darts out, Tim feels a sting on his neck, and he's unconscious before he even hits the ground.

* * *

He wakes up in a locked room, and he spends the next seventeen weeks there.

He has a bathroom, a bed, books, a nice view outside his window, and food is brought to him through a slot in the door three times a day. The person who brings it never speaks to him, and never responds to his attempts at talking to  _them._ Even when he resorts to nothing but extreme and colorful insults, none of them say a word.

Each night, Ra's visits. He, too, ignores the insults Tim throws his way, the shouting and yelling and screaming. He weathers it all easily and simply talks. Even when Tim sits in the corner and does nothing but glower at him, Ra's talks about the places he's been, or books he's read, or fights he's been in.

He tells Tim about the League of Shadows, too. He shares their history and their workings and even talks about the people in it, like his daughters, the young people he's training, and his loyal followers. And after a while, Tim can't help but listen.

The first time he asks a question, Ra's' eyes glow with triumph.

For just over four months, his only human interaction is the demon's head. Tim's always had an active mind, and he goes through the books on the shelves almost immediately. He runs over the room countless times before accepting that there's no escape from it, and there's only so much he can talk to the hand that delivers his meals. Ra's might be horrible and condescending and unyielding, but he's also interesting and engaging and the only source of stimulation Tim has.

He doesn't want to like him or respect him. He doesn't want to soften to his parents' killer. But _seventeen weeks._

One hundred and twenty-one days after Tim first woke up, Ra's releases him from the room. He doesn't know what makes the man decide to do it, after so long of keeping Tim locked up. He doesn't know what the final point was, what made Ra's so sure.

It almost makes Tim afraid of what it means for him, _about_ him. But he doesn't have long to think about it.

Seeing so many other people after being separated for so long is...odd. He's gotten used to the quiet of his room, gotten used to Ra's company and undivided attention. Suddenly there are countless people moving through the halls or eating and chatting at long tables or training in the various rooms dedicated to it. It's hard, and he flinches away from loud noises on more than one occasion.

Ra's has him shadow him everywhere. He sits in on every meeting, attends every training session, observes every initiation ritual. Ra's has commanded him to be seen and not heard, and so Tim does. He spends a month doing absolutely nothing but watching, and he gets very good at moving silently and reading body language.

Overall, the members of the League pay him no attention. The first few days he gets some curious looks, but they all soon accept his presence and follow their leader's lead, treating him as a shadow on the wall.

Ra's laughs when Tim makes that analogy one morning while they're playing a game of chess.

"Fitting," the man says, and takes Tim's knight. "We are, after all, the shadows of the world. Fitting that you would see yourself as that."

That statement doesn't sit well with Tim, but it's not like he has any other choice but to accept it.

There's one person in the League who doesn't seem to like Tim. He's never actually spoken to her, but Talia al Ghul is not a fan of his presence. Her eyes are cold when she looks at him, her jaw clenched like his very being offends her. He doesn't know why she feels that way, especially when her sister Nyssa simply seems amused and intrigued by him being at Ra's' side, but she does nonetheless.

Tim doesn't want to bring it up with Ra's, because she's his daughter and Tim is...a pet project, or something. He doesn't want to speak out of turn, doesn't want to create more problems, doesn't want to risk Talia's anger with him growing by tattling, or whatever.

 _(If you told Tim six months ago that he'd be worried about_ speaking out of turn _with his kidnapper, he'd have laughed in your face. But now...)_

"What occupies your thoughts, Timothy?" Ra's asks one day, just about five weeks after he was let out. They're eating dinner together and reading, Tim with a book, Ra's with some report one of his men gave him.

The man's free hand is playing with a small marble, an object that he always seems to have with him, usually kept in a small pendant around his neck, tucked under his clothes. Tim doesn't know what it is, only that it must be important, because the man never seems to be without it.

When Tim doesn't answer immediately, Ra's lifts his head, looking at him expectantly.

And, well, Tim knows better than to ignore that.

"Talia doesn't seem to like me very much," he says cautiously.

Ra's doesn't look surprised by his statement. "No, I don't suppose she does. She probably considers you a threat to Damian."

Tim blinks, and then frowns. He puts his book down. "Her son?" He pictures the small two-year-old he sometimes sees running around with a knife. "Why would I be a threat to her son?"

Now, Ra's looks amused. "Damian, as my grandson, is my de facto heir, a fact Talia is quite fond of. Now imagine how this looks from her perspectiveI came home one day with an intelligent child who I am having shadow all of my movements, and am spending a good amount of my free time with. What do you imagine that looks like to her?"

"Like you're finding a replacement," Tim realizes. "She thinks you want to make _me_ your heir, not Damian."

"She's not wrong," Ra's tells him, like it's the most natural thing to say.

Tim blinks. "I'm sorry  _what?"_

Ra's raises an eyebrow. "Which part confuses you?"

"All of it!"

"Timothy," Ra's begins, a patronizing edge to his voice, "I told you the day we met that I intended to train you and raise you as my own blood."

"Yea, I guess, but that doesn't mean that I'd be your _heir!"_ Tim splutters, eyes wide.

"Damian is fierce," Ra's says, "and dedicated. He will be an excellent assassin one day, of that I have no doubt. But I do not believe that I should rely upon his loyalty."

"Why?" Tim asks incredulously. "He's Talia's son, your actual blood! If there's anyone's loyalty you can count on, I would think that would be it!"

Ra's purses his lips thoughtfully. "His father is not a member of the League," the man says slowly. "There is always the option of...divided loyalties."

The words make something clench in Tim's gut. "I didn't think you had a problem getting rid of obstacles like that," he says softly, his eyes lowered to the table.

After a moment, Ra's sighs. "Damian's father is different from Jack and Janet Drake. I will not explain to you how, because I do not have to, but the situation is very different. I will give Damian the benefit of the doubt, but I have reason to believe he will choose otherwise."

 _Reason to believe._ Ra's uses that with Tim a lot, and variations of it. It was the same logic he used when taking Tim, that he saw something that changed his view on things and has sent them on the path they're on. He never has any interest in explaining, and Tim knows better than to press. But sometimes he wants to kill whoeveror _whatever_ it was that made this change in the demon's head, because Tim just wants his life back.

"And so I'm your heir?" Tim asks in disbelief. "Me?  _Why?_ I didn't even choose to be here!"

"Because you have extreme potential, Timothy." Ra's goes back to what he was doing, lifting the pages of parchment once more, eyes going down to it. "Because I believe that you deserve the roll. Or, you will. Whether or not you chose the League, the League chose you, and my mind will not be changed. Now  _eat,_ Timothy. You'll need your strength for when training starts."

"And when  _does_ training start?" Tim asks, exasperated. "I've been free for almost a month and a half."

He sees Ra's' lips curve upward, and then the man lifts his head again. There's a glint in his eyes when he says, "Tomorrow, Timothy," and Tim realizes that Ra's has been waiting for Tim to ask, waiting for Tim to  _want_ it.

Tim seethes silently, and says nothing.

* * *

He might hate being with the League, and he might resent Ra's and everyone else, but Tim has to admit that he enjoys training.

He's sore and exhausted at the end of every day, he's constantly frustrated when he doesn't get something right or one of the other kids knocks him on his ass, and he always feel tense and on his guard, but it's exciting. It's  _fun._ He's sure there's something wrong with him for thinking that, but he does enjoy it.

He's never felt success like what he feels when he wins a sparring match and sees Ra's incline his head with pride. He's never been as satisfied with himself as he is when he disarms his opponent, or hits a challenging target, or holds an entire conversation in one of the languages his tutors teach him.

Months and months pass. Tim finds a rhythm of being there, even begins learning the names of all of the League members. He still shadows Ra's in his meetings, but a majority of his time is spent in lessons. In Ra's' logic, the other children have been training since birth; Tim is seven years behind, and it's important that he catches up.

Frankly, Tim doesn't think that'll be a problem. He's quickly approaching top of the classwell, other than one person. He's probably never going to beat the girl who doesn't speak but reads people like breathing, but he doesn't let that make him feel bad; he doubts  _anyone_ could be fast enough to beat Cassandra, unless they carried her same incredible ability.

Talia continues to look at Tim with distaste, and there's a few occasions where she looks downright  _murderous,_ but she never does anything against him, so he's learned to live with it.

Damian, for a two-year-old, is actually quite perceptive, and thus picks up on his mother's ire. Ever the loyal son, Damianthough not understanding the reasoningmirrors the hatred. But on someone so small, it really just comes off as adorable.

Tim does his best to not tease the little gremlin, but sometimes it's hard. It's just so  _weird_ to see a toddler wielding a knife or throwing punches. The kid's clearly smart and very dedicated to the life, but sometimes it's hard to keep a straight face.

Cassandra catches him suppressing a laugh one day and smirks back at him. She's a few years older than him, but he likes her; she doesn't talk, doesn't even seem to have any language skills whatsoever, but she's extremely good at body language, enough to practically read people's minds. She's being trained to be Ra's' personal bodyguard, to replace the current Ubu, and frankly Tim thinks the demon's head couldn't be in better hands.

Out of curiosity one day, Tim asks Ra's about how she came to be the way she is. He raises an eyebrow at the question but answers all the same.

Apparently, her fatherDavid Cain, one of the most accomplished assassinshad the goal to isolate a child completely from language and then train them viciously, thus making violence and fighting their native language. Cain tried multiple times and only ended up with insane, feral children, so he decided to try one of his own blood mixed with another fierce warrior. Thus, Cassandra came to be, and she's everything her father ever wanted her to be.

Originally, Cain was training her away from the League despite what her future role would be, but something happened to change his mind, and so a few years ago he brought her here, and she's been permanently with the League ever since.

Cassandra might not be able to speak or write, but she's still pretty good at making her thoughts known. She quickly becomes Tim's only friend, and he's grateful for her; without her company, he'd have no one but the demon's head and an angry toddler to talk to.

* * *

A year passes, then another, and another.

Tim barely remembers the color of his mother's eyes or the shape of his father's smile. He can't recall what color his bedroom walls were, or how many blocks there were between his home and his school. His old life has faded, completely replaced by the new one.

Ra's calls him son. Nyssa calls him brother. The members of the League treat him with respect.  _Warith al Ghul_ is whispered through the halls, following him wherever he goes.

 _Warith al Ghul._ Heir to the demon.

Tim no longer hates it here. He wears that title with pride, is filled with honor when Ra's calls him family, feels strong when members of the League bow their heads in deference as he walks by.

He might not have chosen the League, might not have wanted to be here, but this is his home now. Nyssa and Talia are his sisters, despite one of them carrying hatred for him. Damian is his nephew, despite the boy's snappish tendencies. And Ra's al Ghul is his father, despite the fact that he murdered Jack and Janet Drake.

This is all Tim has. All he will ever have. And he'd be a liar if he said he still hates that.

"Aqala," Damian says sharply from somewhere behind him. "I require your assistance."

Tim counts to ten for patience and then turns around. Damian is only five years old and yet has mastered the superior tone of someone who knows the high standing they were born into, and enjoys it. He's also taken to calling Tim  _Aqala,_ or  _Aqala min,_ meaning "less than".

The boy is an asshole who considers himself far  _better than_ Tim. Tim has to restrain himself from stabbing Damian just about five times every goddamn day.

"What do you want, Saghir Wahid?" Tim asks, because he decided long ago that he wasn't going to let Damian be the only one who gets to use irritating nicknames.

 _Saghir Wahid_ small one.

Damian's eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn't comment. After the first time he attacked Tim unwarrantedand got a severe look from Ra's al GhulDamian had gotten better at holding himself in check. It's still a skill Tim thinks the boy should work on, and the next time the boy comes at him, Tim is going to knock him on his ass.

Because Damian might be skilled, but he's also half Tim's age, and Tim is  _very_ good at what he does. He has no interest in harming the boy because it would just make things with Talia worse, but he  _also_ has no interest in lying down and letting himself be walked all over.

"Grandfather has requested that I bring him the histories journal," Damian says stiltedly.

Tim raises an eyebrow. "And?"

"And the guards at the door to the library will not let me in," Damian grits out. His hatred for the situation is clear, his teeth bared, and Tim can't help but feel terribly amused.

More than likely, Ra's has given this task to Damian in order to frustrate the boy. Damian's temper has not gone unnoticed by the demon's head, and though the boy shows the proper respect to Ra's and his mother, he lacks it with everyone else. Ra's wishes to teach Damian patience, and Tim is completely on board with that.

"And?" Tim says again, raising an eyebrow.

Damian scowls at him. He'd be such a  _cute_ child if he didn't look so angry all the time.

"And so you need to make them open the door!"

Tim hums, nodding slowly. "I'd imagine so. However, you started this conversation by calling me an insult, then you demanded my help for a task you were given. I don't see why I would be inclined to aid you at all."

The boy's glare intensifies and then he opens his mouth, probably going to spit something rude back at him, when a League member appears at their side. He inclines his head in respect and then says, "Ra's al Ghul has requested the presence of you both in the grand hall."

Damian stalks off down the hall without a word, chin raised proudly, and Tim rolls his eyes. "Thank you, Zed," he says, because he's not an asshole, and every member of the League deserves some modicum of respect.

Zed cracks a smile and nods, then vanishes down the hall.

Tim heads after him and Damian, walking the familiar path to the grand hall. The doors are open when he gets there, and he sees Ra's sitting on his throne. Talia and Nyssa stand to the left side of him and Damian is currently raising out of a deep bow in front of him, before shuffling off to stand next to his mother.

It's then that Tim sees the small figure kneeling in front of Ra's.

Tim walks forward purposefully, noticing out of the corner of his eyes how the shadows he passes incline their heads, the same way Zed did. When he reaches the front he bows, waiting a few seconds and then rising before moving to stand at Ra's' right shoulder.

The figure, he sees, is a little girl. She has her head bowed, her black hair falling around her face. She seems to be around Damian's age, and she wears robes appropriate for members of the League.

"Dusan al Ghul is dead," Ra's announces, and you can hear the room take a sharp breath of surprise. "His daughter lives, and shall join us here." He looks down to the girl. "Rise, Mara al Ghul."

The girl pushes herself to her feet and clasps her hands behind her back. "Grandfather," she says, inclining her head in respect. "Thank you for welcoming me."

Ra's hums. "You are blood, and will thus be given the respect befitting an al Ghul. You will also be required to continue your training and serve the League, if you wish to remain here."

"Of course," she replies immediately. "I will serve the League however you need me to."

"Good," Ra's says decisively. He looks to the gathered League members then. "You are dismissed." He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't even take on a hard tone, but everyone bows and leaves immediately nonetheless.

"Nyssa." The woman steps forward. "Find Mara appropriate quarters. Next to Damian's, if that's open." The boy's head jerks up, frowning at his grandfather. Without even seeing the expression, Ra's says, "Because, grandson, you are family, the same age, and going to be training together." Damian opens his mouth. "And because I  _said so."_ Damian's jaw snaps shut.

Nyssa bows and then leads Mara away, offering Tim a small smile. Tim likes Nyssa; she's sharp and clever and skilled, and actually seems to like Tim in return. She doesn't hold Talia's intrinsic distaste for him, calling him  _brother_ with an amused but genuine curve to her lips, a teasing honesty in her voice. Talia's gotten used to his presence after three years, but Nyssa's never been anything other than excellent with him.

"Damian, I believe you were given a task," Ra's says offhandedly, and the boy tenses, bows quickly, and then rushes from the room. Ra's glances at Tim, amusement in his eyes, and Tim quirks a smile in response.

"Must you tease him so?" Talia asks in exasperation.

Ra's turns his attention to his daughter. "Tease him?" he echoes, raising an eyebrow.

Talia nods. "Yes; you posted Scimitar and Grind at the doors of the library, knowing they would not grant Damian access, which means that he would be unable to grab the book you requested. You do this sometimes, father, and I do not understand why you treat Damian as a passing amusement."

For a moment, Ra's just watches her, and Tim can tell he's debating whether to chastise her for her argumentative tone or explain how wrong she is. Or both.

Instead, he says, "Timothy, please tell my daughter the answer to her question, since you worked it out long ago and it appears that she still does not understand."

Talia goes rigid and shifts her gaze to Tim, hatred obvious. Part of Tim wishes Ra's wouldn't do things like that, point out when Tim's done something better, because it simply makes things harder between him and Talia. However, another part of him is extremely pleased by the fact that Ra's has more faith in his abilities than hers.

"Our father isn't teasing Damian, nor doing any of this for  _amusement,"_ Tim says calmly. "Your son has a temper, a pretty severe one, and struggles to show the people around him the respect they deserve. He is arrogant and rude, and those traits are not only unbecoming for someone with the al Ghul name, but also for a shadow of the League."

It's clear as day that Talia is barely restraining herself from simply attacking the young boy in front of her. She doesn't like that someone she still sees as an outsider is insulting her son, the one she believes  _should_ be in charge. But Tim isn't saying anything that isn't true.

"Because of this, our father gives Damian these frustrating tasks to teach him patience, and respect for those who stand in his way. I have no doubt that if you were to ask Damian, he probably shouted at Scimitar and Grind to let him enterthey are senior members of the League, and should be treated with respect. Damian lacks the necessary skills to be a pleasant human being, let  _alone_ a commander in the League." He looks to Ra's. "Have I spoken out of turn, or am I correct in my statements?"

Ra's gives him a look that clearly says  _You know you're right, Timothy, playing dumb does not suit you._ It's something Tim's heard him say more than once before; more than any of Tim's skills, Ra's has enormous faith in Tim's deductive abilities. He's always disappointed the few times Tim doesn't know something he feels the boy should have already figured out.

"You are correct, son," Ra's agrees, and then looks back to Talia seriously. "I do not  _tease_ your son, daughter. He is stubborn, and needs to learn. Either he will come to me with his frustrations and then I can correct him  _myself,_ or he will learn these lessons naturally through these tasks. Either way, Damian  _will_ improve. Now, you are both dismissed."

The pair of them bow and turn to go, Tim heading for the dining hall to eat, Talia presumably to locate Damian and share what Ra's just said.

When they reach a divide in the hallway, Talia stops him with a hand on his shoulder. He looks at her warily, finding that she's watching him with an appraising look in her eyes.

"You are less than a third of my age," she says lowly. "You are not his blood. You didn't even  _want_ the honor he so readily gave you. Why are you _here?_ Why does he treat you like he believes you have the potential to be his equal, and his own grandson does not?"

This is probably the most civil she's ever sounded with him.

"I don't know what drove him to find me," Tim says honestly. "And you're right, I hated him and this place and everyone in it at the beginning. But he saw something in me; I don't know what, but something hit him hard enough to test me, and then have faith in who I would become. I was an ignored, unwanted, unloved childRa's al Ghul has given me purpose, and this is my home.

"You might not like me, you might consider me a threat to Damian, but I'm here to stay, and I actually  _do_ like the little urchin. He has potential, Talia, and I don't want to see him harmed. I would really like for you and I to get along, but I understand your feelings. I simply wish we could make something of a truce, maybe? Whether or not you like it I'm _here,_ Talia, and I'd like to consider you my family."

Talia stares at him for a long time, lips pursed, eyes narrowed, and then declares, "Tomorrow we will eat breakfast together." Then she turns and heads swiftly down the hall.

Tim stares after her and then starts to grin. It took him three and a half years, but he's finally gotten Talia al Ghul to take the first step towards them getting along.

* * *

Tim kills his first person on a regular Wednesday afternoon.

His second is five minutes later. His third right after that. His fourth comes an hour later.

(It's a very stressful day.)

Ra's, when it's all over, puts a hand on his shoulder and looks at him with an expression brimming with pride. Almost immediately, Tim's unease fades away and he feels nothing but satisfaction.

* * *

A week after Tim's twelfth birthday, he meets the mercenaries Deathstroke and Renegade.

He's heard of them before, of course, not only because of their reputation but because Ra's hires them from time to time. He's never encountered them personally before, though, nor even seen them around the island, so walking into Ra's' study to find the two men is something of a surprise.

He doesn't let the surprise hold him for longhe's far too good for thatand bows to his father before going to stand behind Ra's' right shoulder.

"Deathstroke, Renegade, this is my son Warith al Ghul," Ra's introduces. In front of outsiders, he never uses Tim's real name. "Warith, I'm sure their reputation precedes them."

A barely-there smile quirks Renegade's lips. "Nice to meet you," he says, and sounds like he means it. Deathstroke doesn't say anything at all.

"And you as well," Tim returns, and then waits to see why his father sent for him.

"Warith, Deathstroke and I have something we must discuss in privateI'm sure Renegade would love to see the training facilities we have here."

Tim sees Renegade's lips twitch, an infinitesimal motion, and Tim has no doubt that the older boy is not fooled by the dismissal. He clearly has no interest in being argumentative with the demon's head, however, because he says, "Sounds good to me," and then gestures for Tim to lead the way.

As they turn to go, Tim sees Renegade and Deathstroke share a look, and then the slight incline of Renegade's head; it's obvious they've just had a silent conversation, but Tim couldn't guess at what was discussed, nor does he care to as long as it's not about harming people of the League.

Tim silently leads Renegade through the halls and towards the main training room, where he'd been with Cassandra up until receiving the summons from Ra's. The mercenary is examining everything, his gaze sharp as he attempts (and maybe succeeds; Tim doesn't know him well enough to make the assumption) to memorize the path they take and the halls that branch off.

A smile lights Renegade's face when they enter the training room, his eyes dragging over the various pieces of equipment and the walls of weapons. Tim feels almost _proud_ of his home, seeing the clear delight on the elder boy's face.

Spotting Tim's amused expression, Renegade's smile grows, lopsided and honest. "We move around so much, so we don't really have a place like this." He waves a hand, indicating everything. Then his head tilts up, and the smile softens. "You even have a trapeze."

There's something very  _odd_ about this mercenary. He's...light. Happy. None of the seriousness his mentor Deathstroke carries, nor the focused intensity of everyone at the League. Tim doesn't doubt that Renegade is good at what he doeshe's certainly heard storiesbut it's quite unexpected to come face-to-face with a famed mercenary only to find…gentleness.

It's refreshing.

"We do," Tim agrees. He spots Cassandra over by the sparring mats, just stepping away from a finished match, and heads over to her, Renegade following.

"Renegade, this is Cassandra, a member of Ra's an Ghul's personal guard. Cassandra, meet the mercenary Renegade."

Cass' eyes flick quickly over Renegade's body, taking in a million things about him that Tim will probably never wrap his head around, and then her eyes crinkle and she gives a small wave.

"Hi," Renegade says. "It's nice to meet you."

"Cassandra doesn't speak," Tim explains, wanting to cut off any confusion when the girl doesn't reply. "Can't, really."

Renegade frowns, and Tim gets ready formost likely irritatingquestions, but instead the older boy just says, "Yea, that makes sense."

Tim blinks, surprised, but a quick glance at Cassandra shows that she seems to already be aware of the mercenary's knowledge. How she picks up on these things, Tim has absolutely no fucking idea.

"Why do you say that?" Tim asks, because he's truly curious.

"Well, I saw her fighting when we came in," Renegade explains, shrugging one shoulder. "She's five steps ahead of her opponent the entire time, and the way she read me when we metit makes sense that a person with skills like that has to make some concessions in their head. At first I thought that maybe she's a meta but then you said she can't speak, so..."

He shrugs again, this time the motion awkward, and Cassandra smiles.

"I hope you don't train with her," Renegade says, amusement in his voice, "because I have no doubt she'd kick your ass." Tim frowns, and Renegade laughs. "Don't be offended; she'd kick my ass, too. I pity the idiot who thinks they  _can_ win; only person I've met that can probably stand a chance against her is Lady Shiva." Suddenly, the boy squints at Cassandra. "Huh."

"What?" Tim asks.

"Nothing," Renegade says distractedly, and the furrow between his brows vanishes. "Making leaps of logic, that's all. So! What should we do while the grownups talk?"

After a moment of contemplation, Tim smiles, and points upward. "Go for it, man."

Renegade grins widely and doesn't hesitate to rush for the pole that leads up to the trapeze.

Cassandra raises an eyebrow at Tim and he smirks back. "What? He looked like a kid on Christmas, I couldn't help myself. Plus, I'm curious to see if he falls on his face, considering we don't have a net."

The girl shakes her head, but he can tell she's amused and curious, too. After just about five years of knowing her, he's gotten pretty good at interpreting her looks and motions; certainly nowhere _near_ as well as she can read  _him,_ but enough to get by.

Renegade gets to the top of the trapeze, pauses for a moment, and then goes for it. Neither Tim nor Cassandra can look away; it's almost an artform, what the mercenary is doing up there. It's graceful and precise and  _incredible_ and Tim has never seen anyone move like that before.

Except...waitthere was _someone_ who moved like that. He saw them back in Gotham, nine years ago, right before two people fell to their deaths.

That boy up there is Richard Grayson. Tim knows this without a doubt.

Eventually, Renegade comes down. His cheeks are flushed and he's bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet; he loves it up there, that's as clear as day.

Cassandra says goodbye to them both, having a task to go complete, leaving Tim and Renegade to amuse each other.

Tim's gaze wanders around the room, watching the other League members train. He sees some of them occasionally glance over their way, which is understandable; every shadow is intrinsically wary of outsiders. Plus, Renegade's little show a minute ago was impressive, which was bound to get some attention. Across the room, Damian and Mara are sparring, and seem to be trying very hard to pretend like they don't care about Renegade's presence.

"You're adopted, aren't you?" Renegade asks.

Tim looks at him sharply. If this mercenary is about to imply that he's any less than Ra's al Ghul's son just because he doesn't share blood, then he's got another thing coming. Tim isn't a stranger to doubts about his worth, and he  _always_ proves them wrong.

Instead, Renegade smiles softly, genuinely. "I know," he says, like he's reading Tim's mind. "He's your dad. I was just making an observation, because you don't share his coloring." The mercenary nods towards Damian and Mara, who both hold Ra's' tanned skin, just like Talia and Nyssa. "Adopted doesn't make him any less your father."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," Tim observes in return, and is suddenly very curious in return about how Richard Grayson of C.C. Haley's Traveling Circus ended up as the adoptive son of the infamous mercenary Deathstroke.

Renegade smiles lopsidedly, but doesn't say anything. He looks over the room, watching people fight and train.

Tim debates saying something about knowing Renegade's identity, but it's not important. Maybe it'll come in handy one day, but for now, it's not his secret to share or take away.

"Renegade," someone calls, and both boys looks towards the door. Ra's al Ghul and Deathstroke are standing in the large doorway.

"Duty calls," the young mercenary drawls, and gets to his feet. "It was nice to meet you, Warith."

Tim stands as well, and finds he means it when he says, "You too, Renegade. I hope we meet again." He offers his hand, and, with a smile, Renegade takes it.

"Oh, I don't doubt it," the mercenary says, and then jogs off towards the door, departing with his adoptive father.

"Who was that?" Damian demands suspiciously, appearing at Tim's side.

"Renegade," Tim says simply. "Deathstroke's partner." He looks down at his nephew, and smiles. "No one you need to worry about, Saghir."

"Tt," Damian says in response to the nickname, but it doesn't bother him like it used to. Ever since Tim and Talia starting getting along better, Damian's calmed down a bit. They actually get _along_ sometimes, which is more world-altering than it should be.

Progress is slow, but it's progress nonetheless.

"Mara will not listen to my corrections," Damian says then. "Will you come show her how she is supposed to move into that kick Onyx demonstrated the other day?" He hesitates, then adds, "And maybe you could also train with us?"

Tim fights against the urge to smile, because he knows Damian will take it as teasing and then get defensive. "Of course," he says. "I'd be glad to." He follows the younger boy over to where he'd been sparring before.

He might not've chosen to be here, might've even kicked and screamed in the beginning, but this is his home now. Damian, Nyssa, Talia, Mara, Ra'sthey're his family. They're all he has. And between them and Jack and Janet Drake, they'll win every goddamn time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to say that I absolutely love Damian Wayne but he's a tiny asshole and should be portrayed as such. He's an awful little gremlin and I utterly adore him.
> 
> Also - I love that the way Tim canonically figured out Batman's identity was because he saw Robin do a complex move and was like "There's only _one_ boy who can do that! Robin is Dick Grayson!" There was no way I could leave that out of this fic lol.
> 
> Next up: Jason Todd!


End file.
